Uncles for Dummies
by hiding duh
Summary: Sylar/Claire. A good girl can change.


This is so cheesy I should move to Wisconsin and start a dairy farm.

**Title**: Uncles for Dummies  
**Fandom**: Heroes  
**Characters/Pairings**: Sylar/Claire  
**Summary**: A good girl can change.  
**Rating**: R  
**Spoilers**: Through 3x06.  
**Word Count**: 2600  
**Notes**: Partially inspired by the most recent comic. I figure this is probably the last week I can get away with this pairing, bah.

* * *

*

These things aren't romantic.

She'd see them on TV sometimes, on the news, and she would cringe and think, "How can people _do_ that?"

But now she has this uncle.

He didn't change her diapers or give her baths or walk her to school when she was little. He didn't check her spelling or buy her candy or brag to his buddies about her. He saved her _life_, and she thinks she probably loves him.

Not _because_ he saved her life, but because he's her uncle, and because he's family and she was meant to love him, in the same way that she loves Meridith or Nathan or Lyle. It's not a choice, really, it's that nagging concept of: "We're family, damn it," and Claire can't escape it.

When Peter looks at her, she thinks he sees all that candy he's never bought her, all those diapers he's never changed, and all the misspelled words he would have corrected.

*

She tries kissing him once—on the cheek, just to see—when he's asleep and can't look at her like she's a freak.

It doesn't feel special.

It's just skin, she finds out, like when she kissed West or Brody, or that time in fifth grade, when she wanted to learn how to kiss and Zach was conveniently there.

Same as touching her lips to a paper cup or a mirror or her own skin.

*

When he tells her about Sylar, about the family that keeps growing exponentially, she isn't really surprised.

"So, my uncle killed me a couple times," she shrugs. "And my grandpa's crazy." She grins. "Could happen to anyone."

*

She doesn't love Sylar.

He's family, damn it, but Claire can't help it. When he looks at her, he doesn't see missed pony rides or birthday candles or park rides. He sees _potential_.

*

His fingers brush against hers once, when she's not paying attention.

She shouldn't feel anything, shouldn't even notice, but the small of her back itches. During one mission, she stumbles in the dark and presses into his back, and her cheeks suddenly burn. His breath fans her neck when they stand in line for coffee, and something urgent coils deep in her chest.

Revenge, she tells herself, nothing more.

She sees it on the news again, some man and woman in Austria, and she wonders, "How _do_ people do this?" Do they say something first or do they just reach out or do they wait until everyone's asleep?

*

It's the little things that catch his attention, she finds. An unnecessary tug on his sleeve or a lingering glance when he roams around in just his pajamas.

He understands, and his smile is dark, full of promise.

When Sylar sleeps, it's in the car, and Peter's there, so Claire says, "Maybe we should stop for the night."

Peter does. He books three rooms because it's proper and they can afford it, and Sylar leaves his window open.

She climbs in effortlessly, and finds him asleep. He's on his stomach, sheets twisted around his ankles, hair tousled. Claire pictures ending up on the news. "Girl in Nevada arrested for sexually assaulting her uncle; more at eleven."

It shouldn't be funny, she thinks. But nothing else registers, not fear, not guilt, not conflict, just a sense of, "I want... something from him, I guess?"

So she climbs into bed next to him and tries to figure out what to do.

In the end, of course, she does nothing.

*

In the next state, Peter finds her behaving suspiciously nice, and books two rooms, one for her, one for them. She protests, saying, "You'll be sorry if someone kidnaps me."

"For you or the kidnapper?" Sylar asks, one corner of his mouth curling.

She looks at him, lips parting.

He looks away.

*

On their way to California, they stumble upon a tiny inn and then it's only one room left, so: "Claire, you take the bed."

She does, straight from the shower, hair wet, bathrobe thrown on haphazardly, and announces cheerfully, "I left you some hot water, Peter. I think."

He smiles and shakes his head, disappearing into the steam and closing the door behind him.

Quick, Claire turns to level her gaze with Sylar's.

He's watching her with dark eyes, almost reluctantly. "I'm a good guy now, Claire."

"No, you're not," she scoffs. The robe slips off her shoulder. "You're a Petrelli."

*

In California, he finally touches her.

"I have a family now," he tells her, brows drawn together in thought. "And you're trying to take it away."

She raises an eyebrow. "I'm sure you've heard of payback, Sylar."

He pauses, palm outstretched toward her. "It won't work. I won't feel anything."

She nods, advancing. "Yeah, it doesn't work for me, either." Her fingers wrap around his left wrist. "Thanks for that, by the way."

So okay, he has her power—and the broken part of it—but Claire thinks maybe he can feel this.

"Working yet?" She slides his hand along her clavicle.

His eyes narrow, gaze lowering to her lips. "Can't feel it."

She knows he's lying—or maybe she hopes he is—but plays along. Slowly, she pushes his fingers lower. "Now?"

He takes a moment to answer. "Nothing."

She has no idea what she's doing. She almost killed the first boy who got this far. She has nothing to compare it to. But the skin on her arms is prickling, and his seems to be covered in goosebumps.

"Now?"

He pushes her away, but there's no force behind it. "This is pointless."

She grins, waving him off. "Not for me."

*

Eventually, they make it back to New York, where Angela is waiting for her boys. Claire thinks it's safe, if Angela hasn't said anything, so she asks for the room closest to Sylar's.

Peter thinks it's strange, but doesn't interfere.

So Claire waits two days, lets people settle down, create patterns, adjust to living under the same roof, then pads over to the kitchen.

"Not here, Claire."

She glances around, squinting. "Who said I was looking for you?" She opens the fridge. "I'm here for... this... okay, someone has to go shopping. The fridge is empty."

And its doors are cold against her back.

Scowling, Sylar brings his face dangerously close, body pressed against hers, and wraps his fingers around her wrists. "You have to stop."

Claire tilts her head curiously, knees weak. "Hey, I'm not the one pinning people to large appliances."

A strange look passes over his face, but he doesn't move. "Okay, I feel it," he tells her earnestly. "Are you done now?"

She slips a knee between his legs. "No."

Frustrated, he lets go of her wrists, hands slipping to her shoulders. "Claire, I checked," he drawls, voice low and oddly strained. "We're definitely related. Closely."

Claire wrinkles her nose. "Yeah, well, I already have a real family, Sylar, I don't need—"

"Then go after Peter," he suggests, fingers digging into her skin.

Mortified, she looks away. "Okay, this has officially gone too far." She forces herself to glance back at him. "Look, I'm sor—"

He kisses her.

It's not... disconnected. Not like when she's drinking water and her mouth wraps around the rim of the bottle, not like when she kissed Zach or Brody or West or Peter, not like her own skin.

It's just different, she guesses, special? Like maybe the part he broke is fixing itself beneath his tongue? Maybe something less stupid?

Then again, maybe it's just messy, maybe he doesn't have much experience, maybe this is a bad kiss and all her other ones were good and she was just too focused to notice?

"Idiot," he mumbles, and she's not sure if he means him or her, but the slow slide of his lips is too distracting anyway. It makes her ache a little, and she's not used to hurting, especially not in those places.

When he pushes her away and wipes his lips as though she tastes terrible, Claire scurries to her room and doesn't leave until Angela stops by to inform her, "Peter should focus on regaining his powers. But you and Gabriel, my dear, have a mission."

*

This is better than being sent off to Paris, Claire muses, but only marginally.

"Our target's in Manhattan," Sylar tells her casually, bushy eyebrows furrowed.

They hail a cab because that's what people who can't fly or teleport, or kill those who can fly or teleport, do. Wordlessly, they pile into the back seat, one at each window, ignoring the other until the cabbie asks, in a heavily accented voice, "Ah, lovers' quarrel?"

Claire cringes. "No one uses that word anymore."

"What, 'quarrel'?" the cabbie asks, genuinely interested.

Sylar turns his head slightly to look at her. "You'll have to excuse my niece," he says darkly. "She's spoiled. Used to getting everything she wants."

Her lips curl, breath misting over the window. "Sure, that's me. Things just come so easy to me. And no one ever takes them away."

Sylar pauses, then leans forward, stuffing a twenty into the cabbie's hand. "We'll be getting out here."

Frowning, Claire hops out of the cab, rounding its trunk to wave an accusing finger at her uncle. "No, okay?" she shouts. "You're going to listen to everything I have to say!"

He catches her hand before it hits his chest. "I can't give it back to you, Claire," he tells her ruefully. "That's not how my power works."

She hesitates. "Yeah, I know."

If this were Peter, he could make them invisible or fly them off somewhere, but it's not Peter, so Claire rises on her tippy toes and steals a kiss.

He doesn't respond, doesn't move, merely endures her.

"This is the only way I can hurt you," she confides, fingers tangling in his shirt. "You owe me this."

*

The agent thing is easy. They bring the guy in with very little trouble—Claire only dies once—and Angela offers them a small smile, eyes bright.

"I knew you would be good for each other," she tells Claire, smiling as though she knows a secret. "You'll bring Gabriel into the family quite nicely."

Claire's eyes narrow. "And who brought _me_ in?"

Angela touches her face, inappropriately close. "Enough theatrics, my dear. Best to focus on the future."

Claire thinks this whole family is seriously weird and messed up, but there it is, that stupid, "I guess I love this creepy lady, too," feeling that no amount of Haitianizing can justify.

When Angela leaves, Claire turns to Sylar, sighing. "Let's go, mama's boy."

He grins and follows her home.

*

Home, she finds, is where he finally gives up.

In the bathroom, brushing his teeth, looking nothing like a psychopathic serial killer in his white pajamas, Sylar suddenly just glances at her—brushing _her_ teeth, in _her_ white pajamas—and scoffs.

If she were ten years younger, this would be cute. But she's seventeen and his hips are pressing against her side.

"Let me finish brushing my teeth first," she says, feeling stupid. She knows what's coming, _has_ to be coming. Her heart is pounding hard enough to break her ribcage or something less melodramatic, and her mouth is dry, and bile is sort of climbing up her throat—

He kisses the corner of her lips.

Slowly, she drops her toothbrush. It falls to the ground next to his. The drawstring on his pajama pants comes undone, tickling her thighs.

"You'll leave me alone after this?" he asks against her lips, one hand sliding up her stomach.

She'd answer him if she could, but it's so weird, this ability to feel things, to feel his light touch on her skin, so instead, she just brings her hands to his face and scrapes her teeth across his bottom lip.

This seems to amuse him. "You have to stop watching the CW, Claire," he smirks, then pushes his knee between her legs.

Her breath hitches. "And you should read a couple instruction manuals," she retaliates, bracing against the counter.

She can feel his stubble on her cheek and on her chin and on her lips and it's absolutely wonderful, so wonderful she finds her hands lowering to his chest. And she can feel that, too, firm and warm and beating wildly. So lower she goes, lightheaded.

And then it's a little too real. She doesn't know how they got there, but her fingers are slipping around the waistband of his pajama pants. She pauses awkwardly.

"Claire," he warns, and suddenly she remembers Homecoming and Costa Verde and can't believe she actually wanted this.

"No, wait," she mumbles, nauseous, "you're my uncle. It's gross."

He leans into her, inhaling deeply. "Funny. I thought I mentioned that before."

She draws a shaky breath, his weight pressing her deeper into the counter. Her fingers are still there, adjusting to this unfamiliar new texture, and somehow it feels like she should let him nestle between her legs?

He leans back to watch her for a moment, frowning. Then, quickly, his hands are on her hips, sliding her onto the counter, knocking the soap dish out of the way. The theory of relativity kicks in because one second, his fingers are digging into her hips, and the next, they're pushing past her shorts, between her legs, down around her panties.

Her chest is burning and it's like every forgotten nerve ending has been revived or something because he hasn't even touched her yet and she feels like she's done.

"Wait," she says, terrified.

He doesn't, because he's still Sylar and she suspects he's trying to teach her a lesson and it's physics, really, when his fingers slip inside. Considering he's used those two fingers to kill her a few times, Claire believes she should probably protest.

Instead, she squirms and tightens her hold on him, cheek pressed into his chest.

A faint, "Hey, where is everyone?" drifts into the bathroom.

It's Peter, and Claire loves her uncle but, boy, if someone could just teleport him out of the house for an hour—

"In here," Sylar replies calmly, but his heart is pounding against her cheek.

Slowly, she withdraws, as does he. She bends over to pick up their toothbrushes, rinses them out, hands him his, and waits for Peter to peek in on them.

"This would be cute if you were ten years younger," Peter notes, giving her a lopsided grin. "And if you weren't brushing your teeth next to a psychopathic serial killer."

Sylar's eyes connect with hers in the mirror.

*

Breakfast is... fun.

It's just her, and Peter, and Sylar, some fruit and some bagels, and the news on TV. There's nothing to do except bond as a family, and Claire thinks she maybe sees Peter's qualities starting to reflect in Sylar's eyes.

Like maybe he's looking at her like he'd want to go to her eventual graduation, or buy her lollipops, or brag to his friends about her, if he has any. So, really, now would be a great time to hurt him, like she told Meridith she would. Perfect time to storm out or somehow betray him because he's sort of an idiot, getting attached so freakin' quickly to Angela and to Peter and to her.

All she'd have to do is tell Peter, or Nathan, or even Angela, "He touched me," and they'd all believe her because it's _true_, and Sylar would lose everything—everyone—

But he's her uncle.

A slice of apple levitates toward her. "And what do we say, Claire?"

She rolls her eyes, but smiles. "Thank you."

And she kinda loves him.


End file.
